


Moments

by Kristylee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Panty Kink, Slice of Life, Soft Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23143471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kristylee/pseuds/Kristylee
Summary: Moments of Dean's life. <3
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 19





	Moments

There is a measure of aloneness at the bottom of the closet. Sitting in the dark, waiting for John to stop staggering drunk through the motel room while Sam buzzed off to the library. Dean, he counts burn holes in the old carpet, wondering why somebody would smoke in the confines of a closet. He doesn't know. He keeps the number a secret.

He unfolds himself when he hears Sam come back with burgers and a few bottles of coke. Sometimes Sam is the big brother. Nights like this, Dean guesses, he let's Sam pretend to take care of them. Really the weight is all over Dean.

"Can I have his?" Sam asks. 

John passed out roughly an hour ago and itll be twelve more before he is awake enough to want food. Sam is going through a growth spurt. Dean thinks he will be shorter than his younger brother one day. Soon. 

*

It happens on occasion. They come across something they've never fought before.

But Angels?

Dean is easily flustered by them. Saved him from the measure of pain that was Hell. Because it was hell. Meat hooks and burning flesh. With this angel, this one in particular, Dean grows Christmas-warm. 

Castiel in the vessel of Jimmy Novak, a decent enough guy with a family, he looks at Dean as if his name is already branded on his heart.

Dean wonders if Angels can have hearts. Warriors of God. Do gooders. Smiters. Capable of anything. Capable of … anything.

Castiel corners Dean. About twice a week, he suddenly appears and its about three inches from Dean's face. So his ears turn red and he says, clears his throat, says 

"Cas, we've talked about this - personal space."

Dean sits at the bottom of the closet sometimes or in the bathtub sometimes with a beer or two and he hopes it is Cas that smells like fresh bread and sweet apples and not Jimmy.

*

Killing things is easy. It's business. The sharp, quick swing it takes to decapitate is second nature, all muscle memory. Loading a gun, cocking it and shooting is as easy as listening to his own heart beating. As his next breath.

They're on a hunt, a quick milk run when it happens. A blow to the head and then thrown from a window. 

Witches.

The edges of his vision are blurred, static and black. It starts to rain. Sam and Cas are still up there. 

Sam. Cas.

Dean groans into the night and it hurts his lungs like being on a meat hook in Hell. Beneath him, the ground is riddled with witch killing bullets, like burn holes in a motel room carpet. He fingers the bent carcasses of what's left of the bullets, counts them out and keeps the number a secret to keep himself awake.

Lack of personal space, Cas says, "Dean," so gently it hurts worse than his head. 

Lack of personal space, Cas lays his palm to Dean's forehead, wiping away the pain and blood with the heat of his grace, his long fingers. Then to Dean's chest, palm over his heart, allowing all the air to rush back to his collapsed lungs. 

"You're okay, now, Dean."

Sam is a giant and runs over and says the witch is dead. It's over.

Dean insists on driving home. Sam sits in the back.

Cas doesn't speak, but his eyes don't leave Dean in the flash of other headlights. 

*

On one of Dean's first hunts alone he was stupid, eager and he met a girl. Not just any girl.

She opened a door for Dean. A quietly sensual door that showed Dean what was hiding in the dark parts of his psyche. He didn't know.

She smiled and whispered, "Just try them on...for me?"

The satin was a soft creamy pink and Dean held his breath the whole time. 

She teased without judgement, "You liked it. Aww, Dean…"

He kept the panties.

*

Sometimes it's too much. The pain, the loss, the work. Dean drinks most nights. Sam will join him after a hunt, but most nights it's Dean in his room, bottom of the closet, bottle of whiskey and his old headphones soothing him with songs older than he is.

The bunker is good. Home. Clean room, food to eat, lore to read. But the closet in Dean's room is spacious and he can kick his feet out and bask in the aloneness of his corner of the world.

Sometimes it's too much. Dean will fall asleep under his hung up flannels and canvas coats and dream of nothing. Or Mom. Or echoes. Distant name calling. 

His mixtape is on repeat.

*

Dean prays. 

"Cas, please…"

Dean prays to Castiel when events are sour. When he needs something. Always. In the beginning it didn't make much sense, just a shout into the void, hoping Cas could hear him. Never a strict ritual, always worded on the fly. Always asking for something. 

Until. 

Until Cas falls, this body just his own with Jimmy gone, he still smells like fresh bread and sweet apples and Dean… Dean still finds himself at night, praying to the one angel who can't hear his words anymore.

"Cas, I'm sorry. I wish we can get your grace back. Not that...not that it isn't funny watching you brush your teeth and eat - you gotta slow down by the way, you're human now and you can choke. I pray for you, Castiel. I'm praying, okay? Just don't leave me - us."

Dean falls asleep clutching a pillow with Cas's name on his lips, through his mind and all the way down his spine where it feels like a weight settles.

*

"Dean."

"...Cas?"

He's an angel again. A warrior again and he stands just like it. Square shoulders, tense stare. It makes Dean uncomfortable.

"Sam suggested I talk to you rather than him about something that has come up."

Dean's face ignites when Cas holds up a pair of sky blue cotton panties. Unmistakably feminine. There suddenly is a knot in Dean's throat, cement like and suffocating.

"I don't think it wise to lure women to the bunker as -"

Dean opens his mouth to speak and stops and then starts again. And then. Stops.

"Cas." Dean stands and with a shaking hand takes the garment from Castiel. "They're mine."

"Yours?"

Dean chuckles and breathes heavily. "I...wear them. Sometimes. Not always." Shrugs. "I like them."

Cas nods once and balls his fists up tight. "I apologize. I accused you of being promiscuous."

"Well I am so no sweat."

*

Cas will say things to Dean on occasion that make his heart plummet.

They're sitting at the kitchen table and suddenly,

"Your soul is remarkable, Dean."

They're driving on a supply run and without warning, 

"You're a great man, Dean."

And 

"Of course I would die for you."

It's enough to throw Dean off, make him question the rest of his day. 

His life. His mind. His feelings.

Because it's Cas. 

*

It feels like an avalanche. A surprising great gush of relief when they kiss.

Dean goes numb when they pull away. The body goes into shock, he thinks, when it's been hit too hard. 

Kissing Cas is a critical hit. From the tips of his fingers to his ribs, to his toes, Dean ceases to exist. He is only lips and tongue with which Castiel caresses. Christmas-warm and flying high, Dean decides he kissed Cas first.

Cas tastes of ocean waves and pure summer sunlight, bright and intoxicating against his skin. 

The avalanche crumbles and lands to settle with Cas and his hand under Dean's flannel, over his shirt, scalding hot, fingers leaving lakes of warmth in their wake. 

"Please," Dean asks quietly.

"Anything, Dean."

"Just don't stop - don't. Cas, please."

*

There is a measure of faith Dean feels grow inside him, bright like blooms after rain. 

Moments between life, he expects to find an answer. Moments of questions still linger and pause in the doorway of his closet and he goes there in the dark to count, to think, to pray. 

And when he unfolds himself to a new day, he is not alone.


End file.
